Goin' Somewhere Slow
by cheride
Summary: JJ's back in jail, but everything's not settled yet.


_Goin' Somewhere Slow- Cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: K+_

**Author's Notes:** Well, this one's been sitting around in my files for a while. It's been posted elsewhere, but I never got around to putting it here for some reason. But, this week's episode over on the Gulls Way Board is "Goin' Nowhere Fast", and it got me to thinking, so I thought I'd dust it off and put it out.

* * *

Milton Hardcastle stared blindly at the food on his plate, then glanced up at the clock on the wall and finally returned his gaze to the food. It was at least the twentieth time his eyes had completed that particular pattern.

"Why don't you just call him?" Sarah Wicks said from across the table. "Or, better yet, go over there and find out what's going on?"

Hardcastle raised his head to meet his housekeeper's gaze. "He's a grown man," he answered, more harshly than he had intended. "He knows when it's dinner time."

"Maybe he'd like to be invited," Sarah suggested gently.

"He shouldn't have to be invited," the judge retorted, "this is his home. Besides, that's never stopped him before. He's always over here, butting in to things, not even bothering to knock."

Sarah didn't take the time to point out that Mark shouldn't have to knock if this was truly his home. Hardcastle didn't like to have his logic questioned when he was irritated. And, she reflected quickly, Mark McCormick—the ex-convict paroled into Judge Hardcastle's custody—had the ability to irritate the jurist more quickly and completely than anyone else on this earth. Only Sarah's long friendship with Hardcastle allowed her to understand the affection necessary to generate that kind of response.

"He hasn't seemed himself since we got back from the police station," Sarah finally said.

Now that she pointed it out, Hardcastle realized Sarah was right; the kid had been kind of withdrawn most of the afternoon. Come to think of it, McCormick hadn't even complained about doing his chores, and that was almost unheard of.

"I think this thing with Beal was kind of strange for him," Hardcastle answered after a moment.

Sarah was puzzled. J.J. Beal, the escaped convict Mark and the judge had captured this morning, had been one of Hardcastle's rehabilitation projects, very similar to McCormick. But . . . "Why would that be strange for Mark?" she asked.

Hardcastle glanced away guiltily. "He might feel like there's some sort of competition between them," he mumbled. "And he might think Beal is coming out the winner."

"And just why would he think that?" Sarah demanded. "I can't remember the last time _Mark_ brought armed men into the house planning to kill you."

Hardcastle chuckled. "A fair point, Sarah. But I think I might've spent a little too much time regaling him with stories of J.J.'s finer qualities."

"Without bothering to tell him about any of his own good qualities, I suppose?" Though she posed the question, Sarah already knew the answer. It simply wasn't in the judge's nature to be free with his praise.

"Yeah, well, before you start feeling all sorry for him, let me tell you how he managed to get us thrown into jail."

A look of alarm crossed the housekeeper's face. "What? But Mark's on parole; if he were arrested again . . ." she trailed off, not wanting to think about McCormick going back to prison so soon after coming to the estate.

"Him?" Hardcastle said with mock indignation, "What about me? We both ended up in the slammer, you know."

"So tell me what happened," Sarah said with the patience born of many years association.

"Oh, the kid had this crazy idea that if he got put in jail with one of the inmates from that prison bus maybe he could get a lead on J.J." Hardcastle discovered it was hard to stay angry when he tried to describe McCormick's intention.

"So, anyway, he cons me into getting out of the car and leaves me standing at the side of the highway like a fool. Then he takes off and breaks probably every traffic law in Nevada and gets himself arrested. He's lucky he didn't get himself killed, driving like a maniac all over the desert."

Sarah smiled at the bluster trying to hide genuine concern. "He _is_ a race car driver, Your Honor. Besides, if he left you on the roadside, how did you end up in jail with him?"

"Well . . ." the judge busied himself with poking around at his food, but finally gave up the pretense. "When I went to bail him out, I lost my wallet, and I had my gun with me without the permit, and I might've been less than polite with the officer on duty, so . . ."

"So you got yourself locked up because of your charming disposition?" she laughed.

"I guess you could say that," Hardcastle conceded with a grin. "McCormick got a pretty big kick out of it, that's for sure. He may never let me forget it. Of course," he added darkly, "I'm not gonna let him forget how he ditched me in the middle of nowhere, either, so we might end up with a battle of wills."

"Like we don't already have enough of that," Sarah complained. She looked at the barely touched plate of food Hardcastle had pushed away. "Whatever is going on with the two of you, why don't you just go over there and talk to him?" She rose and began gathering the dishes off the table.

"He's a good young man, Your Honor, and he shouldn't be sitting over there feeling like he's playing second fiddle to someone like J.J. Beal."

Hardcastle looked away from the sincere eyes of his good friend. "I'm sure you're right about that, Sarah," he said softly, "but he needs to learn some boundaries, too. I can't have him thinking he's okay as long as he stops short of hostage taking and conspiracy to murder. And I won't put myself in a position to be taken advantage of again. If he wants my trust, he's going to have to earn it."

Sarah shook her head as she examined Hardcastle's troubled face. She started for the kitchen with the dishes.

"How many times?" she asked simply, leaving the judge alone to consider the young man he had brought into his home.

**00000**

McCormick considered ignoring the knock on the door; if he had wanted company, he would've gone to the main house for dinner. But after today's case, he figured Hardcastle would be in just the right frame of mind to think he'd tried to escape if he appeared to be missing, so he barked out an answer he hoped would send the judge away.

"What? I'm restin' here!"

He heard the door open and knew he had miscalculated. He should've known the old donkey would barge in anyway.

"I thought you might be hungry, Mark."

McCormick jumped up quickly when he heard the soft voice, a guilty expression on his face as he turned to face his visitor. "Sorry, Sarah. I thought you were Hardcastle."

She placed the dinner plate on his dining table then turned to face the young man. "Do you think that's an appropriate way to speak to the judge?" she asked in a scolding tone.

On another day he might have laughed and assured the housekeeper his attitude was perfectly appropriate, but not today. Today he wasn't sure if anything he did was appropriate, and he wasn't thrilled with the uncertainty.

"Probably not," he finally answered sullenly. He glanced at the table. "Thanks for bringing dinner; you didn't have to do that."

Sarah smiled gently. After her conversation with Hardcastle, she had anticipated McCormick's depression, and she was determined to ease it. "Would you like some company while you eat?"

McCormick shuffled his feet and stared down at them uncomfortably. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he really didn't want company either, and he didn't even want to eat. "No thanks, Sarah. I'm not really all that hungry. Besides," he admitted, "I'm not that great of company right now."

"He wouldn't trade you, you know."

McCormick jerked his head up sharply at the unexpected statement. "What?"

"You heard me," Sarah answered firmly. "He wouldn't trade you."

McCormick met her eyes. "Of course he would, Sarah, all things being equal. Beal was his first choice, after all. He'd rather it be him."

"Even if that were true," Sarah countered, "all things are _not_ equal. It takes a lot more courage to stay than it does to run. And Judge Hardcastle knows that, too."

McCormick shook his head. "He doesn't trust me, Sarah, not really. I never really knew why before, but now I understand. Doesn't make it any better, though."

"Of course he trusts you," the housekeeper replied haughtily. "Why do you think you're living here in the lap of luxury instead of out in the gardener's trailer? And last month, when your friend robbed this place, the judge never for a moment believed it was you, not even when that other judge had you arrested. And, most importantly, if he didn't trust you, you'd be spending your meal times strolling through some prison chow line instead of sitting here pouting, waiting for someone to bring you a plate of leftovers."

McCormick laughed lightly; Sarah always did have a way of getting to the heart of the matter. "Okay, you're probably right about that, Sarah. And pouting is probably exactly what I was doing. But just because he doesn't exactly think I'm John Dillinger doesn't mean he really trusts me, either.

"But you know what I really don't get?" McCormick asked suddenly, pain tingeing his voice. He continued quickly without waiting for an answer. "I'll tell you what I really don't get. Beal leaves here and takes off on some wild crime spree across half the country, then he breaks out of jail, takes you hostage, and tries to kill the judge. Meanwhile, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, and I'm even trying to help put _him_ back inside. How is it that I end up on the losing end of that comparison?

"All I keep hearing is how much better he is than me. Better, smarter, faster. He's like some kind of friggin' bionic man."

It was Sarah's turn to laugh. "Don't be so dramatic, Mark; it isn't becoming."

McCormick blushed slightly. He hadn't intended to confess any of his feelings. How had Sarah gotten him talking so quickly? He grinned, almost shyly. "Yes, ma'am. All done with the drama. Sorry."

She reached out and patted his cheek. "Don't worry, Mark; you can't scare me off so easily. And _I_ wouldn't trade you, either."

McCormick reached out impulsively and gave the older woman a quick hug. "Thanks, Sarah."

She pulled away and fixed McCormick with a stern expression, but she couldn't hide the twinkle in her eyes. "Don't think that sweet routine is going to get you out of your chores, young man. As soon as you've finished your dinner, you better bring that plate over to the house and finish up the last of the dishes."

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated dutifully, "I certainly will."

Sarah offered one piece of advice just before disappearing out the door. "Talk to the judge, Mark. I think you'll both be surprised by the conversation."

McCormick considered the comment carefully for a long moment, then crossed eagerly to the table. Maybe he was hungry after all.

**00000**

McCormick argued with himself as he sat waiting in the dark. What was he doing here, anyway? Sarah said he should talk to the judge, but what—exactly—did he intend to say?

'_Hey, Judge, wish you liked me better.'_? Hardly.

Or maybe, '_Don't worry, Hardcastle, this ex-con isn't going anywhere.'_? Not likely.

Or, how about, '_Beal was a fool, Judge; I'd die before I'd hurt you.'_? Not on your life.

So, if there wasn't anything to say, what in the hell was he doing sitting here, leaning against the basketball goal, in the middle of the night? "Beats the hell outta me," he muttered.

He should be sleeping. He'd been awake all last night driving and then watching some punk's house, trying to track down the elusive wonder-con. If he had any sense at all, he'd get up right now and take himself to bed. Of course, he'd spent the last couple of days being constantly reminded that he wasn't really all that bright . . . might as well live up to that expectation just a little while longer. Besides, whether they talked or not, it would be fun to play a little one-on-one.

McCormick ran a hand through his hair and pondered that thought. When had it become '_fun'_ to get himself pounded around on the court, cheated every other play, and basically run into the ground like so much dirt?

He grinned suddenly as he realized the answer: since the very first game. No matter how much bitching and moaning he did, the truth was he enjoyed the games.

Really, though, he thought he might enjoy just about anything that he could do with Hardcastle, and that was probably the most surprising realization of all. After all, growing up without a father wouldn't have been his first choice, but he thought he had managed just fine on his own, thank you very much. And he certainly wasn't looking to create a new father figure out of the man who had sent him to jail. But being with the judge was a clear reminder of what he had missed, and he was enjoying this unusual second chance, even if their relationship was founded on blackmail and threats.

McCormick smiled as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the goal. Yes, blackmail had definitely brought him here, but—even after so short a time—he found that he wasn't really concerned with the threats any more. Much.

Oh, he definitely had to behave himself, he was sure of that. But he realized that he trusted the judge to understand and overlook the occasional mistake. _Like leaving him stranded at the side of the highway._ McCormick chuckled quietly to himself. _Probably haven't heard the last of that_, he thought. Dumb idea, anyway, and it hadn't worked out like he'd planned, though it had all turned out okay in the end.

The smile faded from his face as McCormick remembered the scene. "Trust me," he had said to the judge, all innocence and smiles, even as he'd been trying to trick him. And Hardcastle had answered with his patented bluntness, "Gonna be six months before I trust you, McCormick." It had probably never crossed the jurist's mind that the words would sting, or that McCormick would be sitting here over twenty-four hours later, wondering if his stupid stunt had bumped the waiting period up a few more months.

"What in the hell are you doing here?"

The unexpected growl from the darkness caused McCormick to jump, banging his head against the pole as he got quickly to his feet. "Ow!" he cried, rubbing the back of his head. "Nothing," he answered petulantly. "What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?"

"I'm not sneaking anywhere, kiddo," Hardcastle answered gruffly. "Just came to do my nightly baskets."

McCormick stared. In blue sweats, a Yankees ball cap, and tennis shoes that looked like they had been handed down through about ten generations, Hardcastle was dressed for battle. He offered an easy objection to the older man. "Since it's so late, does that mean you'll skip the morning routine tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't get your hopes up," the judge answered with a grin.

McCormick shook his head. "I thought people were supposed to sleep more when they got old like you?" he complained, still rubbing his head.

Hardcastle ignored the jab and grabbed McCormick's hand from his head. "Let me see that," he said roughly, trying to look at the bump forming under the curly brown hair. It was far too dark to see clearly, so he contented himself with poking at the rising area.

"Hey!" McCormick exclaimed, pushing the hand away. "What're you doing? That hurts!"

"Don't be such a baby," Hardcastle instructed. "That's a nasty bump you got there, and I just wanted to make sure you didn't cut your fool head open. Are you feeling okay? Honestly, you're the only person I know who could conk yourself silly just by sitting in the driveway."

McCormick jerked away roughly. "Yeah, I know; just add klutz to the list of complaints. I'm sure good old J.J. was Mr. Coordination, too. Sorry I couldn't live up, Judge."

_Damn._ He had decided not to broach that subject with Hardcastle, regardless of Sarah's advice. All thoughts of carefree basketball were gone from his head as McCormick turned to stalk back toward the gatehouse.

_Damn_, Hardcastle thought as he watched McCormick retreat from the court. Regardless of Sarah's advice, he had not intended to have this conversation with the young man. Of course, he also hadn't intended to snap out the kind of careless insults he knew McCormick would be overly sensitive to right now. The kid was about to disappear through the bushes before he made himself speak.

"Wait a minute, kiddo."

McCormick obeyed the instruction, knowing that to do otherwise would only invite trouble. He turned slowly back to face Hardcastle. "Never mind, Judge. I'm just tired, nothing to worry about. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I thought maybe you'd want to play some basketball," Hardcastle suggested, stopping McCormick before he could turn away again.

McCormick grinned slightly. "Yeah, I could tell by your warm words of welcome when you found me out here," he replied ruefully.

Hardcastle returned the grin. "Okay, so you took me a little by surprise, too; guess we're even. But come on over here and sit down for a minute. I want to make sure you're okay before I beat your butt on the court."

McCormick hesitated briefly, then obediently walked back to join the judge. "I'm fine, Hardcase," he said, grabbing the ball from Hardcastle. "I'll take the ball out."

"Sit," Hardcastle said firmly.

McCormick grimaced, but he folded his legs and sat, carefully choosing a spot in the garden area that wouldn't crush any plants. At least it was slightly softer than the concrete. "Satisfied?"

"Not quite," the judge answered as he folded himself and sat in the dirt to face McCormick. "While we're waiting to make sure you're not gonna slip into some kinda trance from the bonk on your head, I want to talk to you a minute."

McCormick closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. "Okay. Not really sure what there is to talk about this time of night, but suit yourself."

"It's about Beal," Hardcastle began slowly.

"You know what, Judge?" McCormick interrupted. "I honestly think I've heard just about enough about Beal to last me a lifetime, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," Hardcastle retorted, and continued speaking.

"You know, when I was planning my retirement, I considered quite a few people for my assistant—"

"You mean _slave_," McCormick corrected under his breath.

"I must've started with thirty names, all guys I'd sent up at one time or another," the jurist continued, ignoring the interruption. "The more I considered, the easier it was to find a reason to eliminate name after name. But no matter how many people I eliminated, Beal kept moving forward to the next round . . . and so did you. Finally, you two were the only ones left."

"Judge," McCormick said softly, "you don't have to tell me this. You don't owe me any explanations."

"Damn right, I don't," Hardcastle agreed harshly. He softened his tone slightly before going on. "But still . . . I thought you might be interested in a little history. So, anyway, I had it narrowed down to the two of you, and I bet that was over a year ago. I just kept comparing and debating. On the surface, you were very similar: young, smart-mouthed, quick-thinking. Your personal backgrounds were very different, of course, but the criminal history was similar."

"You mean he was innocent, too?" McCormick interjected with an evil grin.

"Nope," Hardcastle answered with a shake of his head, "guilty. Just like you." He continued quickly before McCormick could sidetrack the conversation with the typical sob story about his wrongful conviction. "Anyway, in a lot of ways, you and J.J. seemed like opposite sides of the same coin, and I just wasn't sure how to choose. In the end, though, it was a couple of pretty simple things that made my decision. First, Beal got out first. Not by much, only a few months, but he was on the street where I could watch him and you were still sitting in Quentin."

"Kinda hard to say who got the better end of that deal," McCormick muttered.

"The other thing, wiseguy," Hardcastle said firmly, "is that Beal actually knew how to control his mouth. He wasn't always successful, of course, but at least he tried a little harder, and he was basically respectful in the courtroom."

"An important point," McCormick replied, apparently sincere. He destroyed the illusion with his next sardonic comment. "Worked out well for you, didn't it?"

"I knew it was an act, McCormick," the judge bristled, "but I did think it might be a good sign that he at least knew enough to try to act the part . . . unlike someone else I know. Whoever came here, I knew they were going to have to do a lot of adjusting and I knew I was going to have to lay down a lot of ground rules. All things considered, I thought J.J. might be just a little bit easier." He sighed deeply.

"But like I told you before, kid, I misjudged him."

McCormick knew that admission wasn't any easier for Hardcastle the second time around. "I wish . . ." he paused, uncertain how to continue. He had been going to say _I wish it had worked out for you_, but that wasn't entirely true. McCormick knew he'd be sitting in San Quentin right now if Beal hadn't been such a fool, and he didn't really wish that. But still . . .

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he finally said softly.

Hardcastle smiled gently. "I think everything happens for a reason, kiddo.

"But the point I was trying to make earlier, McCormick, is that my head kept tellin' me that Beal should be the one, but the reason I argued with myself for so long was because my _gut_ kept tellin' me it should be _you_. Finally, I had to make a decision, so I found a reason to choose him, but I never could really find a reason to _eliminate_ you. It occurred to me that if things went okay with him, I might could eventually find a way to bring you both here, but, of course, he had other things in mind."

Hardcastle took a breath. Now that he had started this, he wanted to finish it. "But what I really want you to understand, kiddo, is that I know now that I should've chosen you from the beginning. But . . . I didn't decide that when I realized J.J. was gone, or when I was chasing him down to Louisiana, or even yesterday when he busted out of jail.

"The truth is, I realized it when you came here and didn't take off; and again when I came back from Las Vegas and you were here waiting for me. And I've realized it a hundred other times in the few months you've been here, even if I've never said so. I don't want you here to try and measure up to him, or even because you're _not_ him, McCormick; I want you here because you're you.

"But, if I had to make one last comparison between the two of you, it would be this: J.J. has a lot of flash, and he puts on a good show; he always seemed like he was on the fast track. But there's no substance behind the flash, and his path isn't leading him anywhere.

"You, on the other hand, are not all that flashy, but you're real. You might be a little slower, but I think your path is headed in the right direction. Slow and steady wins the race, my mom always used to say, and I probably could've saved myself some trouble if I had remembered that six months ago. So just remember that this isn't a contest, kiddo, and you don't ever have to worry about living up to anyone; you got that?"

"Yeah, Judge," McCormick replied hoarsely, barely managing to squeeze the words out around the lump in his throat, "I got it. And . . . and I appreciate it. And I want you to know . . . I mean, I just want to say . . . well . . . I mean, I would _never . . ._"

Hardcastle laughed at McCormick's obvious discomfort. "Never thought I'd see the day when that mouth of yours couldn't come up with something to say, kid. But don't worry about it; I know what you mean, and _I_ appreciate _that_.

"But listen, as long as we're on the subject of things you would '_never_', what do you say we talk about that little stroll into town I had to make yesterday while you were doin' your dance with the local highway patrol? Hard to say whether I enjoyed that more or my visit to the city cooker."

McCormick gulped. "Now, Judge," he began in a placating tone, "you know I was only trying to help. And you did get to talk to that Freddy guy, which was the whole point in the first place. And besides, like I told you before, it wasn't my fault you lost your wallet, so—HEY!" McCormick jerked his arms back in sudden surprise as the judge leaned over quickly and grabbed the basketball from his hands.

"_I'll_ take the ball out, hotshot," Hardcastle said with an evil grin as he jumped to his feet and stood towering over McCormick. "Think you're up to it?"

McCormick rose more slowly, dusted the dirt from his pants, and followed the judge into the court area. "The day I'm not up to bringing you down a peg or two, Hardcase, is the day I—"

"OOMFH!" McCormick watched as Hardcastle scored the first basket; he had never even seen the elbow that doubled him over.

"That was for the roadside escapade," Hardcastle told him smugly.

McCormick grinned as he straightened. Sarah had been right; the talk was worthwhile. But now it was time for a different kind of conversation, and Hardcastle was not going to get the last word.

_Thanks, J.J._, he thought, as he charged across the court.


End file.
